


Bleeding Through

by WongBal



Series: Fractured Realities [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Multi, Multiple Crossovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:49:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1702085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WongBal/pseuds/WongBal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behold the greatest crossover in history! When cracks appear in spacetime, realities begin bleeding into each other at an alarming rate. Bonds will be broken, unlikely alliances forged and discoveries made.</p><p>Either all universes will survive, or none will.</p><p>Part 1 of 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleeding Through

_**~Prologue~** _

Where did it begin?

Some would say it began with the Rifts, or Nadir, or the invasions, or the alliance, or the  _other_  alliance, or with one man’s ambition. They would be wrong. A few clever wags would try to joke that it  _ended_  with the Rifts, but they could not be further from the truth.

The truth…

The truth was…

Truth was a priceless commodity. When universes collide, absolutism is the first casualty. Nothing can be universally understood, let alone agreed upon by everyone involved. Add to that the fact that time passes at different speeds in different universes, and it becomes a miracle that any record survived at all. Time travel only complicates the process further. Person A cites an incident that happened last Thursday, only to find that Person B remembers last Thursday completely differently, Person C does not remember last Thursday at all, and Person D never existed. Assigning blame becomes impossible when effect precedes cause. Some will use that very fact to point their finger at the time travelers, but then someone else invariably points out the time travel started after events were already unfolding, even though words like “after” have no business applying to time travel, and then anybody listening gets a headache and has to go lie down.

In point of fact, there were several beginnings. Therefore, “In the beginning” would be inaccurate. “Once upon a time” sounds trite and clichéd (and the aforementioned chronological backflips make one averse to anything containing the word “time” anyway), it was not a dark and stormy night, and there were no clocks striking thirteen. “A long time ago” brings up the sticky linearity issue again, and there were several galaxies, and not all of them were far, far away.

We will begin with an unremarkable beach, awash in torrential rain that pounded on the corrugated iron roof of a simple, lonely shack. Rain fell frequently there, although the sole inhabitant assumed rain was merely a construct of his consciousness that he perceived to make things wet. Eventually, the rain stopped. The door opened, and a tall shambling man with straw-coloured hair and shabby clothing peered out.

“Well,” he said, “it appears the rain has stopped. Perhaps. If I perceive that the rain no longer falls, then I suppose I might also perceive that I remain dry.” He shrugged and called into the shadows behind him, “Puss-puss-puss! Come, pussy! Let’s go for a walk.”

A cat appeared between his legs, and gave him the look all felines have: it says, “I came because I felt like it, and you just happened to be here.” It gingerly tested the mud in front of the door with one paw, decided the great outdoors were far too damp for its liking, and swished away back into the hut.

“Pussy should have his walk,” the man said, “although it is possible that I am wrong.” He noticed the boots sitting just inside his door, and excitedly picked them up. First he slid his hands into them. Then he balanced them on his shoulders. After exploring all possible interactions between his feet and the boots, he became very excited when he discovered his feet could fit  _inside_  them. He wore the boots on the wrong feet, not bothering to lace them up as he shuffled casually down to the seashore. By this time the ground had dried enough that his cat deigned to join him, or rather deigned to meander aloofly in his general vicinity while pretending not to join him at all.

“I think I see someone in the water,” the man said. “I have never seen that before. People always come in ships.” Six black or green ships, and once a white one. “Perhaps she fell out of the ship. Hmm. She might be dead.”

He leaned over the woman, who was face down in the surf, nudged repeatedly against the beach by each incoming wave.

“Are you dead?”

There was no response. The man shrugged and began walking away, which was a mistake. The woman was not dead, and she was extremely dangerous. In fact, the only reason she had arrived on that planet at all, a planet surrounded by an impenetrable improbability field, was because she was a highly improbable being.

One hand lashed out and grabbed the man’s ankle. He stopped mid-stride and looked down at her. “Hello,” he said.

She tried to ask, “Where am I?” but it came out as “Wrmgh hnn?” After spitting out a mouthful of sand, she tried again. “Where am I?”

“You are here,” he replied. “If you are real, that is. Have you come to sing to my cat?”

This question seemed to confuse her. “Who are you?”

“Me? I am me. And that is The Lord,” he explained, pointing at the cat.

She shook her head, letting go of his foot in order to pull herself onto one elbow. “Don’t you have a name?”

“I suppose not. Do you?”

She glared up at him. “ _Yes._ My name… is Maria Shoshannah.”

…And so it begins, and ends, and begins again…

* * *

_Captain’s log, stardate 47989.2: Starfleet has dispatched_ Enterprise _to the Arinel System, on the edge of Federation space, to investigate reports of possible Borg activity. Needless to say, it is with trepidation and resolve that we travel towards what may very well be our fourth encounter with this implacable foe._

Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the _U.S.S. Enterprise-D_ paused his log entry and sat back in his chair. Was it really trepidation he felt, at the prospect of once again going toe-to-toe with the Borg? No, perhaps that was not quite the correct word. Resolve was certainly accurate. Anticipation, maybe. Lingering doubts forced Jean-Luc to admit that there _was_ a word for what he felt.

_Anger._

He first recognized these sensations upon meeting Hugh. His proposal to destroy the Collective was motivated by logic; preservation of the Federation, he told himself, not wanting to believe that he could be motivated by such a base instinct as revenge.  What changed his mind, in the end, was seeing Hugh as a victim of the Borg, much like himself. That was all the Borg did: create victims. They had no culture, no art, no history; just an endless trail of destroyed worlds and enslaved minds. There were times…

There were times he wondered if they had made the right choice in not destroying the Borg when they were given a chance.

He picked up his flute, hoping to soothe his savage breast with music, but when he held the instrument to his lips nothing came. He placed it reverentially back in its holder and stood up, straightening his uniform shirt. After pausing much longer than was necessary, he stepped towards the door that led to his bridge.

In the same split second that the doors parted, he heard Data call out, “Captain on the bridge!” He nodded in acknowledgement and made eye contact with Number One as he passed through. That was the exact moment his ready room exploded.

It happened almost too quickly for the mind to register. The shockwave launched Picard forward, but almost instantly drew him back as atmosphere began venting into space. He grasped the edges of the door, frozen in mid-close by the impact, and clung for dear life. He was battling the vacuum of deep space, and he knew he would not win. There was a barely noticeable shift in inertia as Riker ordered emergency stop. Data reached the door first, grabbing Picard with arms that the captain knew could bend parsteel with little effort. Data never visibly strained, did not grunt with effort, but Picard could tell the android was having difficulty hauling him in without breaking his bones. Worf suddenly appeared, and lent his Klingon brawn to the equation. Space lost.

Picard tumbled to the deck, bruising little more than his dignity on the way down. He rose almost as fast as Data.

He barked, “Report!”

“Something struck us, captain,” Ensign Gates reported. “A metallic object, roughly 22 by 43 centimetres.”

Riker frowned. “An attack?”

“Negative,” answered Worf, who had returned to his post. “I am detecting no delivery system, no vessels within range, and no subspace distortions of any kind. However, I recommend we raise shields.”

“Make it so,” Picard ordered. “Bring us about. I want to know what kind of metallic object can punch a hole in a _Galaxy_ -class starship.”

“Aye, sir.” Gates worked the conn with trained precision, and from _Enterprise’_ s point of view, the stars whirled around them as they turned on the mysterious object.

“Why didn’t our sensors detect the object?”

“Because, Captain,” Data explained, “it did not collide with us, sir; _we_ collided with _it._ No proximity alert sounded because the navigational deflector typically repels obstacles less than eighty centimeters.”

Riker was incredulous. “It was sitting dead in space and it managed to perforate us like a piñata?”

Data tilted his head, an expression of bemusement occupying his face. “Piñatas are an Earth custom dating back to the 14th Century C.E., and traditionally were filled with sugary confections--”

“Thank you, Mr. Data,” Picard interrupted, before they were all treated to an impromptu treatise on piñatas. “Analysis of the object?”

“It is composed of an extremely dense alloy not in our data banks, similar to neutronium. I cannot provide further information at this time.”

Picard nodded briskly and turned to his first officer. “Recommendations, Number One?”

“We could bring it aboard, let Geordi have a look at it,” Riker replied. “If this is some new Borg weapon, it might be prudent to develop a countermeasure ahead of time.”

“Agreed. Bridge to Transporter Room One.”

Miles O’Brien’s voice came back, over the ship to ship comm. _“O’Brien here, sir.”_

“Lock onto the object at the coordinates Mr. Data provides and prepare to beam it aboard.”

“Captain,” interjected Mr. Worf, “as chief of security, I must protest. This object could be concealing an explosive device or invasive program of some kind. It is _not_ safe.”

“So noted, Mr. Worf,” Picard said, “but if this were an interspatial mine of some sort, wouldn’t it have detonated when it penetrated the ship?”

“That is _one_ possibility,” Worf admitted grudgingly. “Nevertheless I recommend assigning a security team.”

“Make it so. Mr. O’Brien, transport the object directly to Cargo Bay Three.”

_“Aye, sir. “_

Picard waited patiently for several seconds before asking, “Mr. O’Brien, do you have it?”

_“Negative, captain. I don’t understand it. The targeting scanner is locked on but when I try to energize, the annular confinement beam just... collapses.”_

Picard’s brow furrowed, but this was a minor setback. “Mr. Data, lock onto the object with a tractor beam.”

“Aye, sir.” Data worked his console for a moment. “Curious; although I am able to lock onto the object, the tractor beam is unable to move it.”

“What? Why?”

“Insufficient power, sir.”

Riker and Picard exchanged glances. “What kind of object,” Picard wondered, “could possibly exert that level of force in deep space?”

Riker frowned. “A contained singularity, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Bridge to engineering.”

_“LaForge here.”_

“Mister LaForge. Have you been receiving this?”

“I have, captain. And I think I might have the solution.”

>>•<<

From behind the forcefield, Picard watched in mild amusement as the anomalous object floated into the primary shuttle bay. It was only a trick of perspective, of course; the _Enterprise_ was actually reversing at minimum speed, her thrusters carefully manipulated by Mr. Data to position the shuttle bay around the object like some great whale’s mouth. It was an unorthodox solution, but they found themselves in very unorthodox circumstances.

Once their objective was thirty meters from the bay doors, Picard nodded to Geordi, who tapped his combadge.

“LaForge to bridge; we have it.”

 _“Acknowledged,”_ Data replied. _“Initiating full stop.”_

The ship came to a halt, and the bay doors began to close.

“Reinitializing artificial gravity in this section,” LaForge said, glancing from his tricorder to the wall panel he was tapping into. Picard’s inner ear performed a gut-wrenching cartwheel as the grav plating only centimeters away came on. The object dropped to the deck with a clear, resonating clang. Picard squinted at it; did his eyes deceive him? It looked like a—

“A hammer,” murmured Mr. Worf in surprise, finishing Picard’s thought for him. The captain nodded.

“Indeed, Mr. Worf. It does look remarkably like a hammer, or a mallet of some sort. It seems you were correct in your hypothesis that it was some kind of weapon.”

Worf turned to face his captain, eyes wide and gleaming with excitement at the unknown. “Yes, but certainly not the type of weapon I expected.”

Picard nodded. “Perhaps Mr. Data can tell us more. Lieutenant Commander Data, please report to Shuttle Bay One.”

_“Aye sir.”_

Geordi slowly approached the object, tricorder beeping furiously. “This is mighty strange, Captain. I’m not reading any unusual mass measurements from the object. It should only weigh about sixty kilograms.”

“Not dense enough to penetrate our hull,” Picard noted. “Then why wasn’t it deflected?”

“Sixty kilograms is far too heavy to function effectively as a weapon,” Worf observed.

“A _Klingon_ weapon, maybe, Mr. Worf,” Picard observed darkly. “But there are doubtless other beings out there with the strength.” Like the Borg, he thought; but that made no sense. The Borg had no need of a hammer. Unless there was more to this object than it seemed.

Data arrived before he could continue that line of thought, armed with a high-powered tricorder and handheld sensory probe. Picard nodded at him and indicated the... anomalous object. He refused to think of it as a hammer. He was still a starship captain, after all, and part of him wished to disbelieve that a mere carpenter’s tool could do grievously wound his beloved ship.

“Curious,” Data commented, cocking his head to one side. “It appears to be a—”

“Hammer, yes,” Picard finished. “We’ve noticed.”

Data nodded, his evident bemusement the closest he could come to an emotional display. “Yes. Although it may be our cultural assumptions that lead us to perceive it as such. What seems a hammer to us, may in fact be a cooking utensil or a child’s toy to a life form from another world.”

“Analysis?”

Data consulted his instruments’ readouts. “Primary composition is of a hyperkinetic, ultra-dense alloy. The strap on the handle is...” The android’s brow furrowed as he double checked his readings. “Leather.”

Picard stared at him. “Leather?”

“Yes, sir. A flexible material produced by tanning the hide of an animal, such as—”

“I know what leather is, Mr. Data. Could the material be terrestrial in origin?”

“Indeterminate. Numerous Federation worlds use similar materials and processes. I cannot make any further analysis without additional equipment. Recommend we transport the object to Science Laboratory 4.”

“Make it so.”

Data frowned. “I am detecting residue on the object’s anterior surface. It is both organic and synthetic in nature.”

“Synthetic?”

“Yes, sir. The organic material is... blood, sir. Dr. Crusher would be able to provide a more _thorough_ analysis, but—”

“Yes, Data, but what about the synthetic material?”

“It appears to be inert, but... My readings are consistent with Borg nanotechnology.”

At the word “Borg” Picard’s hand was already moving to his combadge. “All decks, yellow alert,” he broadcast. “Mr. LaForge, can you isolate it?”

Geordi nodded. “A level 4 forcefield should do it. Reg?”

Reginald Barclay and two engineering crewmen stepped forward, bearing an antigrav pallet, isolation gloves and heavy manipulators. Picard murmured a quiet aside to Worf. “Set your phasers to wide dispersal, maximum setting.”

Worf looked confused. “Sir?”

“You heard me, Mr. Worf, that’s an order.” He wasn’t taking any chances where the Borg were concerned. The two crewmen prepared the pallet while Mr. Barclay carefully donned his gloves and actuated the manipulators.

“Preparing to transfer the anomalous object,” he stammered, “n-now.” He clamped the manipulators’ claws rightly around the hammer’s— _object’s_ apparent handle and lifted. Nothing moved. Barclay tried again, grunting slightly from the effort. Geordi’s eyes were likely rolling under his VISOR.

One of the other Engineering personnel stepped forward and gave the manipulators a firm tug, nearly falling over backwards when the object remained in place. Picard and Worf exchanged glances, and the powerful Klingon security chief stepped forward.

“If I may,” he said. LaForge raised both hands in a gesture that clearly said, Hey, be my guest. Worf took the gloves, fitted them over his thick, dark brown hands, and carefully gripped the manipulators. Legs braced, he began to pull. Massive muscles strained against his uniform, his teeth bared as he gave a prolonged grunt. Something had to give way.

The manipulators slipped loose and Worf fell, his hard Klingon cranium hitting the deck plating, still holding the tool. Picard sighed in irritation. This was a serious situation rapidly devolving into slapstick. “Mr. Data?”

“A moment, sir.” Data handed his scanner and tricorder to Geordi. “Please hold these.” The android approached the object, grasped it with two hands and gave a quick tug. Nothing resulted except an earsplitting screech. Data looked down at his feet, which had dented the deck beneath them. While Worf checked for bruises aside from his pride, Data checked his instruments, which Geordi had been dutifully aiming at the object, and said, “Interesting. The object appears to exert a total momentum cancelation field, not unlike our own inertial dampeners.”

“So what do we do?” Picard was becoming even more agitated. The Borg were out there, and they were here, being made fools of by a _curiosity._ “Leave it sitting in the middle of our shuttle bay?”

“Actually, captain.” Barclay was speaking, but he clammed up the moment everyone turned to look at him. “The, uh, I think...” Closing his eyes, Barclay found some kind of inner strength and powered through his nervousness. “I think I have an idea.”

“Make it so,” Picard ordered. “Picard to bridge, resume course to Arinel system, best possible speed.”

 _“Aye, sir,”_ Riker’s voice replied from his combadge. _“Everything all right down there?”_

“Perfectly, Number One. I’ll keep you apprised. Picard out.”

>>•<<

 _Enterprise_ was well underway when the object reached Science Laboratory 4, flanked by Mr. Worf’s security team and safely ensconced behind the requisite forcefield. Data insisted the nanoprobes were showing no signs of activity, but Picard refused to take any chances. They had bypassed the object’s immovability via the simple expedient of removing the section of deck plate it occupied. It remained in its original spot, but its original spot had moved. He felt a small measure of satisfaction at outwitting this stubborn _thing_ , whatever its origins or purpose may be.

Dr. Crusher was there, medical tricorder out and scanning. “It’s blood alright,” she reported, “but not from any species I’m familiar with. The nanotechnology is consistent with what we’ve seen before. It seems to be designed for cellular reinforcement and repair. As far as I can tell, it was attempting to repair the blood cells on the hammer before realizing it was a lost cause and going dormant.” Noticing the look he gave her when she said the did “hammer”, and added, “ It looks like a hammer Jean-Luc, and that’s what I’m going to call it.”

He sighed and tapped his communicator. “Picard to Riker. Estimated time to arrival?”

_“At current speed, two hours.”_

“Increase to warp nine,” he ordered. Every thing they learned about this object deepened the mystery. “Could the nanotechnology and blood be from a Borg?”

Beverley mulled this over. “I don’t see why not; it makes sense.”

“Perhaps,” Worf interjected, “an unknown assailant was using this weapon to fight the Borg.”

“With a hammer, Mr. Worf?” Picard shook his head. “That sounds unlikely. Could a Borg even be incapacitated by blunt force trauma?”

Worf’s expression became fiercely Klingon again. “He would have to be a _formidable_ warrior.”

“Or she,” Beverley pointed out.

Worf turned to the doctor. “Or _she,”_ he amended respectfully.

“Curious.” Data suddenly chose to join the conversation. “The language database has identified these markings on the head of the object, sir.”

That caught Picard’s attention. “A linguistic match?”

“Indeed, sir. From Earth.”

Beverley and the captain exchanged glances.

“Old Norse, to be precise,” he elaborated.

Picard asked, “Can you translate it?”

Data nodded. “Affirmative. Translation matrix running now… ‘Whosoever holds this hammer’… One moment… ‘If he be worthy’… ‘Shall possess the power of Thor.’”

“Thor?” Picard’s brow furrowed. “That’s a reference to Earth mythology, is it not?”

“Yes. According to legend, Thor was the god of thunder, son of Odin All-Father, brother of Loki, wielder of Mjölnir… Described as a hammer.”

“Could this be the Mjölnir of legend, Data?”

“It would not be the first time advanced beings visited Earth and were worshipped as deities. On stardate 3468.1, Captain James Kirk of the _Enterprise_ encountered a being who claimed he was once worshipped as the Greek god Apollo.”

Worf grinned. “I am impressed. I was unaware any _human_ mythological figures wielded so impressive a weapon.”

Beverly smiled playfully. “Didn’t Klingons have any gods, Mr. Worf?”

“Yes. We killed them.”

Beverley’s eyebrows lifted, and she turned get bemused smile on Jean-Luc. He nodded, already familiar with the tale. “Humanity chose to _rehabilitate_ ours, until we eventually outgrew the notion and discarded them.” He looked at the hammer, as he now felt obligated to consider it. “Searching for the Borg, and we find an artifact straight out of myth and legend. Remarkable.”

Red Alert klaxons blared, jolting them all from their contemplation of the past. Picard swiftly contacted the bridge. “Number One, report.”

_“Borg vessel on long-range sensors, captain.”_

“A wise precaution, Number One. I’m on my way. Picard out. Mr. Data, if you will accompany me to the bridge.”

Data signed out of his science terminal with all the reluctance an android was capable of and strode briskly alongside the captain as he exited the lab, Worf falling in behind after ordering his security personnel to stand watch on the object. “I’ll be in sickbay,” Beverley acknowledged, leaving in the opposite direction.

By the time Picard and his Chief of Security and Science Officer reached the bridge, Commander Riker had shields up and Tactical standing by. Data resumed his station at the helm, and Picard stiffly took a seat in his command chair, between Riker and Counselor Deanna Troi. The counselor’s dark, half Betazoid eyes watched the forward viewer anxiously, her empathic senses scanning their vicinity even now. “Visual contact,” Worf barked.

“Onscreen,” Picard ordered. “Ready phasers, stand by photon torpedoes.”

He nodded to Riker, who broadcast intra-ship from his chair’s control panel, “All hands to battle stations.”

While this happened, the viewer changed to depict the utilitarian, imposing face of a Borg cube. Picard suppressed a shudder at the sight he had hoped to never again see. “Hold position,” he ordered. “Tactical analysis, Mr. Worf?”

The Klingon’s tone betrayed his confusion. “I am detecting no weapons charging, no shields or target locks, captain.”

Eyes narrowed, Picard turned to his first officer.

“It’s entirely possible that since we last met them, the Borg have adapted to our tactical scanners,” Riker suggested.

Picard considered this. “Mr. Data?”

“Preliminary scans indicate minimal power readings from the cube,” the android reported. “I am reading life support, minor environmental controls. I cannot obtain further readings at this range.”

Dare they risk it? Thinking back to the reports from his… _rescue_ from the Borg, he hypothesized, “Could it be the… sleep cycle?”

“Negative, captain. The cube would still exhibit higher life support readings, maneuvering systems at station-keeping, of which I am detecting none.”

The plot thickened, Picard thought. “Very well. Take us closer, but maintain weapons lock.”

“Aye, sir. Approaching to three thousand kilometers.” The cube grew larger on their screens, an optical illusion created by their approach, but in spite of knowing this Picard could not help feeling a sense of foreboding.

“Well, Mr. Data?”

“I am detecting a breach in their outer hull, approximately nine by twenty centimeters.”

“Why hasn’t it regenerated?”

“Unknown, sir. Cutting beams, tractor emitters, all seem to be inactive.”

Worf exulted, “They are defenseless! We should destroy them while we can.”

“Not very honorable,” Picard replied, “is it, Mr. Worf?”

“The Borg _have_ no honor,” Worf pronounced darkly. “We possess an invaluable tactical advantage. We may never again get a chance like this.”

“As much as I’m inclined to agree with you, Mr. Worf, I’ll not give the order to fire unless it becomes apparent that there is a threat. Number One, assemble an away team. If the Borg are still alive over there, they certainly don’t perceive us as a threat or they would have opened fire by now.”

“Yes, captain. Ensign Lynch,” Riker said into his armrest communicator, “Crewman Ithklar; report to Transporter Room One.”

Data swiveled his chair to face them. “Request permission to accompany the away team, sir.”

Picard nodded to him. “Granted.” Data’s strength and reflexes would make him more of an asset to the team than a liability, and his positronic brain might be able to make some sense of what was going on. Perhaps some knowledge would temper this unease threatening to constrict his chest and stop his artificial heart.


End file.
